


Digging his own grave

by Maracuya



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Despair, Hopeful Ending, Self-Loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-23
Updated: 2013-07-23
Packaged: 2017-12-21 02:48:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/894900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maracuya/pseuds/Maracuya
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This text was written for Comment Fic Meme No.5.<br/>The prompt was: Sandor is dying of love for Sansa.</p><p>Disclaimer: I do not own my works of fanfiction/fanart. I do not profit from the stories or drawings, nor would I<br/>ever seek to do so. All credit for characters, plot and settings go to the respective original author or artist.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Digging his own grave

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maroucia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maroucia/gifts).



> This text was written for Comment Fic Meme No.5.  
> The prompt was: Sandor is dying of love for Sansa.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own my works of fanfiction/fanart. I do not profit from the stories or drawings, nor would I  
> ever seek to do so. All credit for characters, plot and settings go to the respective original author or artist.

Swing, impact, the dry krshhh of hard, breaking earth, exhale, the little thudding sound of the earth landing on a growing heap next to the grave. Swing, impact, the dry krshhh of hard earth, exhale, the little thudding sound... there was no end to it. Brother Digger remembered a sentence, long-forgotten, sometimes uttered by this strange Braavosi in Kings Landing: „There is only one God, and his name is Death.“  
Aye, that was true. There was only one God, and he was his bloody minion. In his old life he had rained death down on other men. Now the death of other men was raining down on him. The krshhh of the earth and the dull bump of the wrapped, dead bodies into the graves, accompanied by a last prayer in a papery voice, were the only sounds around him. He guessed it was the way it should be for him, after all that he had done.  
But in spite of the silence around him there was this song inside his head. It was always there. The Mother's hymn. Sometimes, during his short breaks or while taking a piss, he looked up at the sky and saw birds flitting through the air. When the shovel broke through the crust of the soil he always thought he was swinging his dagger, only he didn't drive the point into her throat, but into his own heart. Again and again. Swing, impact, krshhh, exhale...  
He had done so many things, so many things, had not done so many others that he should have done; and he had not cared, had snarled and growled into everybody's face, had snarled at HER as well, frightened her as well, had hurt her in his own way as much as those mailed fists of the damned knights. He didn't deserve to walk this earth any longer. Well. Walk he couldn't very much with that blasted limp anyway. It made sense.  
He took a swig of water from a wineskin. The Dornish Red had made things worse, especially after the Battle of the Blackwater. In his stupor he had hurt her with his all-encompassing anger. Now, he knew. Even, if he wanted to, he couldn't drink another drop of wine, or alcohol in general. When he had been trembling and befouling himself because of the absence of booze he had seen HER frightened face when his wine-soaked breath had hit her face on the bed back in the Red Keep, and he rather vomited again than to drink any more wine.  
When he had been left to die on the banks of the Trident, he had always thought in his delirium that those pains were the worst ones possible. He had been wrong, so very wrong. Like so often. He had tried to teach HER some truths, but who was he to tell anyone what a truth was? He had been running away from his own sodding truths by drinking so much.  
The sod was often covered with hoarfrost these days. Swing, impact, krshhh, exhale...  
“Winter is coming”, he thought to himself.  
He was standing in a deep hole now. The earth around him was cold. He put his steamy, scarred forehead against it. That felt good. It felt like peace. Suddenly, he lay down and looked up at the sky. Many people believed that the Seven Heavens were to be found there. There were no Seven Heavens for him. There had only ever been a bird with a red plumage that had enlightened his sky, and the world around her had clipped her wings. And not enough, he himself had ruffled her feathers as well. 

 

“Brother Digger? What do you think you're doing?”  
It was Elder Brother, standing on the edge of the grave in his roughspun septon's robe.  
“Feeling dead.”  
“You were thinking as much when I found you at the Trident.”  
“Aye.”  
“The only thing is you are not, Brother Digger. The Hound may be dead. But not you. Though it might change over the next weeks. But perhaps you might do one last good thing before you die.”  
“A GOOD thing? And that is?”  
“You've never said our vows – perhaps you will want to swear a vow or another to somebody else, now that I come to think of it. I haven't forgotten what you told me in your feverish dreams when I found you on the brink of death. There have been news. Rumours that Petyr Baelish has caged a certain bird in the Vale.”  
It was then that Sandor realized that his heart was still beating, and he knew that for yet another while the Stranger would only come to him in the shape of his horse.  
Elder Brother smiled: “If you don't mind, I'd just like to use your grave for somebody different.”  
“Reserve it for Petyr Baelish.”  
“Sandor, don't forget – the Hound is dead.”  
The man, who had been known to everybody as Brother Digger grinned for the first time in a long, long time, and his partly burned mouth twitched.  
“That reminds me of a sentence from Pyke: What Is Dead May Never Die.“


End file.
